


Soft and Huggy

by Tiggy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, I really should write something serious for once, M/M, Otterlock, Post Reichenbach, This will not be it though, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiggy/pseuds/Tiggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“'You know, sometimes the world seems like a pretty mean place.' </p><p>'That's why animals are so soft and huggy.'”<br/>― Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes: Scientific Progress Goes "Boink"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft and Huggy

**Author's Note:**

> This has not been beta-ed, so if you see anything wrong, feel free to point it out. I like concrit as much as the next person!

One:

John rushed down the stairs as fast as his leg would let him. He had the sneaking suspicion that his leg was acting up purely out of a subconscious effort to prevent him from answering the door. Because really, if it was one more _damned_ well wisher simpering about how much he still believed in Sherlock two _bloody years_ after the the man had topped himself then John would just - 

His train of though broke when the door to 221B banged open and rebounded back into the arm he held out to catch it. There was no one there. Before he could move down the two steps to the pavement he noticed an unusual basket with a dark blue blanket peeping up over the edges. A voice, suspiciously deep and supercilious in the back of his mind urged him to reassess. It wasn't a basket at all, it was a bassinet. A bassinet with something moving inside. John glanced around him, but it was mid-morning on a Tuesday; everyone was at work, and even Speedy's seemed to be having a slow time of it. There was no one he could possibly pin this on. And really, who actually left a baby on the front stoop in this day and age?

The doctor in him (or perhaps the soldier) snapped into action. Regardless of who left the little mite, it wasn't the baby's fault. He could at least provide some warmth and a bit of care until he could pester Lestrade into sending someone from social services around. Then he could get to his afternoon shift at the surgery.

"Alright then, let's see who we have here," he murmured in his best bedside manner voice. Worked a treat on patients and dates, so with luck it will do the trick with a baby. He reached down and snagged the handle of the bassinet, then gave a little grunt at the unexpected weight. "A bit of a porker, eh?" With a shake of his head he flipped the edge of the blanket back (studiously ignoring what the colour reminded him of) and gaped. It wasn't a baby at all, although calling it a 'porker' might be slightly closer to the mark.

Curled up, fast asleep, was a small, sleek looking otter.

 

Two:

Sherlock was fast on the trail of a man named Sazinski. Frankly, it was a ridiculous name for anyone, let alone a man who has been successfully dodging him for over three months now. Sherlock was tired, cold and in need of a bath. He wouldn't say no to food either, and wasn't that a change of pace? He wondered what John would say to that. Well no, he didn't, he knew _exactly_ what John would say. The man was nothing if not predictable. Until he wasn't. 

Sherlock huffed softly to himself and wrapped his coat tighter around his slight frame. Even he would recognize that he had lost too much weight recently. There was no helping it though. To stop, to _rest_ would be to fall behind. That was not an option.

He hunkered down on top of a small ridge overlooking an old out of commission factory. The only sign of life so far was a thin streak of white, just barely visible above the roof on the other side of the building. Unlike Sherlock, someone was keeping warm.

'Of course,' he mused, 'once they have been dealt with, I will be able to warm up.' The John-voice in his head protested such a mercenary course of action. It wasn't, it was simple expedience, but Real John would have been appalled, so Sherlock supposed it was unsurprising that semi-subconscious manifestations of his friend sounded equally outraged.

The night deepened as Sherlock waited and nocturnal animals slowly awakened, going about their mundane tasks. Hunting, foraging...fucking. Sherlock shuffled a bit away. There was plenty of things he wanted to experience or experiment on in the name of science. Animals mating held little to no interest for him. As he moved, waiting for the right moment to make his move on Sazinski, his left foot bumped something. Not a bush or rock, what ever it was quivered against his boot. He looked down to see a small rodent - more specifically an erinaceinae. A hedgehog. It lay curled up in a little ball of spines and Sherlock could not see why the animal would not have run away yet. They he noticed the scrap of cloth trapped around its body, the trailing end caught in the fork of a branch on a low bush. It had probably been foraging when it got stuck. 

Sherlock's eye flicked over the area taking in not only the trapped animal but the ground, bush and a sly fox crouched under another brush nearby. It was keeping its distance, but Sherlock could easily deduce what it was waiting for. The hedgehog looked up at him in terror, small nose quivering madly. The fabric caught around its waist was black and white striped, and Sherlock imagined that there was a child somewhere looking for her lost pet. Without acknowledging what he was doing (or the John-voice in his head urging him to set the poor thing free), he stooped even further to scoop up the small creature. Very carefully he unwound the fabric from between its spines and freed it. He cradled it in his hand, noting absently that it was far lighter and smaller than a domesticated hedgehog should be.

Shouts below ripped his attention away from the animal, back to where it belonged. Almost absentmindedly he slid it into his pocket as he glided between shadows to his next target. Sazinski would not escape this time. 

 

Three:

Over two thousand kilometres away, two man had the same thought as they tried to acclimate to a new companion after so many years alone: "well, fuck."

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, well, this first chapter didn't turn out to be as funny as I had thought it would be. The idea sounded crack-tastic in my head, but I can't ignore whatever angst the boys are feeling about their separation. I promise next chapter will be funny. After all, what does one do with an abandoned otter that reminds you of your lost flat-mate? Or what do you do when your subconscious decides that you need a friend to get through the days and you can't leave the DAMN hedgehog alone because it apparently has the self-preservation skills of a lemming?!


End file.
